


I'm Sorry

by mistysinkat



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Overdose, Suicidal Thoughts, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistysinkat/pseuds/mistysinkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen Rutherford is a broken man, struggling with his identity, self worth, past deeds and a lyrium addiction. He is losing the fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a reason I mostly stick to drawing. Everything I write is an angst-fest. This idea popped into my head at work today and wouldn’t go away, so I’ve written it. 
> 
> It is, I think, very dark and very sad. If you love Cullen and would like to continue having a pleasant evening, skip this. Please.
> 
> This was quite hard for me to write, as my father walked a path similar to this, dealing with schizophrenia and drug addiction.

The silence was deafening. It roared in his mind, drowning out all else. The song that had sustained him for so long had ceased. The  _lyrium_  had ceased.

There was only himself left. Only Cullen, crying out in the darkness of his own personal hell, fighting the numbness that threatened to overtake him.

And he was  _afraid_.

“I am the Commander of the Inquisition,” he murmured to himself. “I am the Commander of the Inquisition.”

“I’m sorry, Commander, you were saying?” Josephine’s voice was a clear bell ringing in the silence. It broke through the thick darkness and brought Cullen back into the moment.

“Sorry, Josephine. Just… thinking out loud, I suppose,” he returned with a broad grin. As usual these days, it felt unnatural on his face, but that was who he was to them. He’d wear the mask and play the part he had to play.

“I see. Lost in thought,” Leliana chuckled with twinkling eyes and a knowing smile, “Anything to do with our fair Herald?”

“Ah, no,” Cullen stammered, feeling the blush creep up to his face.  

The ladies laughed at his reaction. He knew they thought his nervousness was somehow endearing.

If they really knew the reason behind the charming blush, though, would they think him so appealing? If they knew how he shook with weakness and pain when the lyrium withdrawal held him in its suffocating embrace, would they still turn their shining eyes on him? If they knew that he was just empty space, going through the pantomime day in and day out, if they knew that everything he was… was just nothing… what would they do?

_I can’t let them know. I am the Commander. I am not weak. I am not nothing. I am the Commander, and I have a duty to perform._

———————-

The door that lead to the makeshift war room in Haven clicked closed as the other advisors and the Inquisitor left after deciding their next move, Redcliffe or Therinfall Redoubt.

“The FUCKING mages!” Cullen roared into the empty room, pounding his fist into the sturdy table that served as the center of the fledgling Inquisition. “OF COURSE, she picks the maker-damned fucking mages!”

He gasped, bringing his hands up to cover the mouth that had allowed such unworthy thoughts to escape. His eyes widened as he recalled the words he’d spoken years before – words that branded him with searing guilt.

“They’re not people,” he’d said. And, Maker help him, he’d meant it. He thought that hate had left him, that he’d been able to forgive, to grow. It seemed he still held on to some piece of that old hatred.

“I am despicable,” he muttered to no one, broad shoulders slumped, voice hollow.  

And without the song to cover it, the thought echoed through the cavern of his mind unchecked, with all the room it needed to grow.

————————

“I’m the Lion of Skyhold now,” Cullen muttered into the morning light that poured through the hole in his roof. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold mountain air. He exhaled slowly. “I have to be the Lion of Skyhold now.”

_Just lay back down._

“I can’t.”

He got dressed and began making his way to the War Room, affecting the saunter he hoped projected confidence. Wearing the smile he hoped said that all was well.

“Morning, Commander!” The Inquisitor chirped brightly, suddenly appearing at his side and falling into step with him.

“Indeed it is, Inquisitor,” his tone matched hers as he smiled down at her.

“You know,” she started, “You can call me Caitlin.”

“I’d like that… Caitlin. And… and feel free to call me Cullen. That is, when we’re not working,” he heard himself purr in low tones. It was what she expected, after all.

She smiled softly and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. Pink blush highlighted her cheeks as she cast her eyes downward.

He didn’t miss these things. He didn’t miss her open smiles or the way she let her hand linger on his arm or how she was always looking at him, stealing furtive glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

Looking at him with those eyes. Those innocent damn eyes. Eyes that had never seen true horror, not really. Clear eyes that said she never questioned who she was.

Eyes that told him that she loved him, even if her mouth had yet to form the words.

But what did she love, really? What was he? And even if he could return the emotion, did he deserve it?

_No._

The answer was breathtaking in its immediacy.

_No._

A hand was tugging him along and a crystal laugh, high and beautiful, rang out.

_Too beautiful._

“Comman…. Cullen, we’re late!” the Inquisitor cried as she pulled him behind her.

His laughter joined with hers as he allowed himself to be led through the rotunda into the main hall. He hoped it was convincing.  

_Too beautiful for this… nothing I’ve become._

————————

The dreams were relentless. When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing but the screaming faces of the Templars and mages who’d died in Kinloch Hold. The twisted faces of his friends and charges howled in outrage. They cried and shrieked as they grasped at him with bony fingers that were impossibly strong. They ripped at his fur mantle. They raked at his face. They tangled in his golden hair. There was no escape. They were pulling him down, down into the darkness.

_You should have died, too._

Cullen twisted to free himself, but he knew it was in vain. They were right. He should have died with them all those years ago.

His lungs burned.

_I can’t breathe!_

He panicked, renewing the struggle against the fingers and arms and legs that gripped and encircled him in the blackness. He was drowning. He couldn’t breathe.

_I’m going to die._

And some small part of him found comfort in that thought.

He hit the floor next to the bed and woke with a jolt, gulping down the crisp morning air. Shaking with fear and covered in a cold sweat, he curled into the tangle of his bedclothes – into himself – and howled his guilt and anger and helplessness into his pillow. His body wracked with the sobbing he couldn’t hold back.

_The lyrium will make this stop._

——————————-

_Work. Work stops this maddening silence._

And he had plenty of it, thank the Maker. Between organizing and training the troops, completing the barrage of reports Josephine demanded and frequent meetings in the War Room, Cullen had enough work to bury himself in for months. Maybe even years.

_But still…_

His eyes strayed to the drawer that contained the little box.  _His little box._

He shook his head against the temptation. He thought it would get better over time. It had been months since he’d stopped the lyrium, but things only seemed to get worse.

That emptiness in his head was wearing him out. When he wasn’t working, when he wasn’t around other people, he spent his days looking out his little window, seeing nothing and letting the numbness wash over him.

His mind often wandered to the Inquisitor. A small part of him ached, wanting to return the feelings she so obviously had for him. At least he could feel that. At least that was real.

_You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve this._

“I know.”

_You’re nothing._

“I know.”

_Take the lyrium. Be something._

“I can’t.”

—————————-

Samson had been difficult to track. Cullen had almost forgotten that damnable silence, had almost lost that horrifying feeling of nothingness in the hunt.

But that ended when they finally came face to face with the man himself. Samson had lost his way. He was leading the world to destruction. He was evil, surely.

But seeing him there, hearing him speak, Cullen could only focus on how  _alive_  he was. How  _present_.

_He’s strong. He stands for something. He believes in something. Maybe not in Corypheus – but in something._

Any relief he’d felt in the past weeks quickly faded. The doubt, the fear, the  _nothing_ , it all rushed back, somehow magnified, and occupied all the familiar nooks and crannies of his mind. His chest tightened when the Inquisitor declared that she would bring Samson back to Skyhold to be judged.  

—————————

After Samson’s trial, Cullen sat alone in his office. Reams of paperwork loomed large before him. Letters from nobles, reports from field agents, requisition orders – they all needed his attention. Any other day, all this work would be a comfort. He sat instead, idly pulling his quill over a piece of blank parchment and listlessly watching the nib create arching swoops across the page. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and resumed.

He couldn’t continue this charade. He couldn’t keep being who they thought he was. He was just so very tired.

He dipped the quill again and returned to the parchment.  

He was lost. How could he find his way again? Hadn’t he once been so very sure of himself? That seemed like such a very long time ago.

Again, he dipped the quill into the inkwell and moved back to the page.

Samson’s words rang out in his head.

“Every one of those Templars would have suffered until nothing was left. And then be forced to kill and die. I gave them hope. Just like the Chantry. Just like you. I’m weak. You’re a savior.”

His hand continued moving across the page with its own will now, arching swoops replaced by violent, jerky motions. The page ripped in places. He didn’t care.

_I’m weak. You’re a savior._

His throat closed in on itself and his breath grew short, but he dipped the quill again and continued making it stumble across the page. Faster now.

_I’m a savior._

He laughed, high-pitched and cracked, as his eyes burned with tears that never seemed to fall any more. His hand continued furiously guiding the quill across the page.  

_I’m a savior._

The quill snapped in his hands. He looked at it blankly for a moment. Had he been holding a quill? Had he been writing? He must have been. His hands, his desk, everything was smeared with ink. His dull eyes turned to the parchment he’d been attacking.

His jaw went slack as he read the words there.

BLESSED ARE THEY WHO STAND BEFORE

THE CORRUPT AND THE WICKED AND DO NOT FALTER

BLESSED ARE THE PEACEKEEPERS, THE CHAMPIONS OF THE JUST

BLESSED ARE THE  **PEACEKEEPERS**

THE  **CHAMPIONS**  OF THE JUST

I AM NO **PEACEKEEPER** , NO **CHAMPION**

RIVERS OF  **BLOOD**

KINLOCH

SCREAMING,  **ALWAYS SCREAMING**

MY HANDS ARE  **NOT CLEAN**

KIRKWALL

HER METHODS WERE HARSH BUT THEY KEPT PEOPLE SAFE

**THEY AREN’T PEOPLE**

SAVIOR

**I AM THE LION OF SKYHOLD**

SAVIOR

DEMONS AND THE DARK AND RIVERS OF BLOOD

BUT  **HE’S**  WEAK AND  **I’M**  A SAVIOR

 **I AM WEAK**  BUT I AM THE LION OF SKYHOLD

I CANNOT BREAK

I CANNOT  **BREAK**

I CANNOT BREAK

I CANNOT

I CANNOT

I CANNOT

I                                               can’t                                      live       

like                         this

He threw his hands out in horror at the nonsense before him and shoved. Papers fluttered and bottles crashed to the floor, breaking into thousands upon thousands of glittering pieces. Pale and shaking, he gasped for air as his chest rattled.

_The lyrium._

The lyrium would keep this… madness at bay.

He couldn’t resist it any more. He couldn’t deny that it would make him better. Better for the Inquisition. Better for his men.

Better for her.

_Better._

The thought dominated his mind.

_I can be better. I will be better. I won’t be weak. I won’t break. I will be better. I will hear the song and the song will make me_

_Better._

Unsteady hands opened  _the drawer_  and pulled out  _the box_.

My box.

He vaguely remembered picking up all the pieces, all his tools, after flinging them against the wall in anger one day. He was relieved to see that none of them had broken.

Skilled fingers set about preparing his usual dosage. The ritual was already soothing his frazzled nerves. He fell into it like it was yesterday, measuring and pouring and mixing the draught.

There was a moment’s pause, just long enough for a very small voice to cry out

_stop_

Before the wave of  _need_ crushed it and the draught was at his lips and he was swallowing. Oh, he was swallowing and it was heaven. It was bitter and sharp, but familiar and comforting. The song. He would soon hear the song and all of this would just go away.

He slumped deeper back into his chair and felt the wave of peace wash over him. The song! It was already humming behind his eyes, caressing him like a lover. His body relaxed as the song grew steadier, muscles, tense from years of anxiety and stress and sadness, releasing into blissful serenity.

The song grew louder.

A slow smile spread across his scarred face, lighting it in a way that no one, even the Inquisitor, had had the pleasure of seeing in years. He looked like the boy he must have been once upon a time. Full of ideals and hope. The boy they killed with their rites and their vigils and their harrowings and the demons.

The song grew louder.

A discordant note rang out, but he didn’t worry. He was lost in the beauty of it all. What was one sour note in this symphony of blessed harmonies?

The song grew louder.

More notes dropped. The tune flattened and roared. Was it always this loud?

The corners of Cullen’s mouth turned down into a frown, the boy lost again.

The song grew louder. Its melody was all but lost in chaos. It was too much. It was far too much. His brain was on fire, erupting and splitting open again and again under the stress of the song.  

His face twisted into a grimace as clawed hands clutched his head, grasping handfuls of golden hair.

_Too much!_

Realization struck.

_His usual dose._

_After months of nothing._

_His usual dose._

_It was too much._

“Maker, no,” he cried into the night, “Stop! Stop! Stopstopstopstopstopstop.”

The pain grew and he felt something warm slide over his lip. Blood. Desperate now, he stood. His vision exploded with light, white on white on white and impossibly bright. His body failed him and he fell.

Numb now, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel. The song drowned out all thought, but her face still managed to float in front of him.

“Call me Caitlin,” she had said with a sweet smile.

He struggled to raise a hand to caress her cheek, but the vision vanished.

“I’m…. sorry. I’m so… sorry.”

The last words Cullen Rutherford, Lion of Skyhold, would ever speak in this world.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for losing my way.

I’m sorry for the things I did.

I’m sorry for Kirkwall.

I’m sorry for being what I was.

I’m sorry for not loving you properly.

I’m sorry for leaving you.

 

I’m so, so sorry.  


End file.
